


A Lesson Learned

by missmuffet



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:32:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmuffet/pseuds/missmuffet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They lose more than Sherlock after the fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lesson Learned

**Author's Note:**

> Written for CXIONBONAN. The first request was for ANGST. Have some very V-Day associated angst. This is riddled with spoilers for the entire series~.

There were few things in Mycroft’s life that he felt merited enough associated worth that he might feel ‘guilty’ about any failures in said area. Admittedly, his upbringing of his younger brother went neither according to his own adapted plan, or that of Mummy’s before her untimely passing. (No doubt due to the shock of seeing how cocaine and reduced her youngest to little more than nothing.) But when it came to his job, his responsibilities, and his duty to Queen and country, there was simply no room for such distractions. Yet here he was.  
  
The puppet master of the British government - his strings all cut. It was a metaphoric wound that came much deeper than he would have expected it to. He had experienced loss of control before. He had seen both the best and the worst come out of people whom were forced to deal with a his brother. But after depositing the most recent newspaper into one of the bins at the Diogenes Club, and the sight he saw upon his haste exit was something far too foreign for him. Gregory had met him outside, typically across the street, on more than one occasion but today the older man stood, back propped not against one of the patrol cars he had a tendency to borrow, but a simple town car. One that wasn’t even his. A tremble to his knees gave away the reasoning; Gregory, an ordinarily stable and strong man found himself unable to focus enough for balancing his own weight.   Distraction. Guilt tugged at his lips and a darkened, scuffed face paired with heavy bags under his eyes announced a lack of sleep the past night. An emotional upheaval. Gregory was neither dressed in one of his suits reserved for work, nor was there the expected bulge at his hip from where his badge usually rested.  

_Ah._

Wordlessly, Mycroft approached, mentally cringing when the notably **_former Detective Inspector_** dropped his gaze entirely. “By force or your own accord?” he asked when no words or explanation was proved.   

“Sacked,” his partner of merely a few months managed to grind out. Voice hoarse. Mycroft suspected it was more from a blend of shame and guilt than something as petty as Gregory actually weeping, especially over a matter as trivial as being fired. (Trivial only because Mycroft sincerely doubted his job would ever be at risk, even now.)

“Mycroft - I … Sorry, I’m _so_ \- I had to. But if I had known…” As fumbling words continued, the British government glanced down, taking note that this morning’s paper was also in the hands of the man he had barely been able to think of as his lover. 

 _SUCIDE OF A FAKE GENIUS_ stared up at him in all it’s infamous glory.  

“He was unstable.”  

“Clearly, but I —”

  “Cannot be held responsible.” Today of all days, Mycroft had no patience for pretenses or beating around the bush. Inhaling softly, he went on. “You’re about to tell me how burdened and inadvertently responsible you feel for the untimely death of my baby brother. _**Don’t.**_ I neither want nor would I desire to hear your condolences. Doctor Watson, however, is a different case entirely. A man with the amount of mental disrupt he’d obtained _prior_ to yesterday, may very well now fall into a category people like you — ” Here, Gregory flinched as though he had just been struck. “—might choose to classify as a danger to themselves and others. As soon as he resurfaces, I’d imagine might be better off to deliver the letter you’ve taken the time to write, currently stored in your back pocket, to him.”

A heavy pause. Someone’s breathing had grown unsteady. Mycroft dared to think it might even be his own.

Gregory was the first to break the silence. “That’s it then.”

“No.” Mycroft shifted his hold on his umbrella, grounding it down to hold his weight while he leaned forward. “I’ve… just now begun to realize that I’ve recently been burdened with arranging the… funeral affairs for my late baby brother. An endeavor which, I would prefer not to do without…” He licked his lips, an old nervous habit of his. “Gregory,” he began, forcing a high lilt to his voice. Sherlock was not the only actor in the family. “ _Please_.  I can’t trust myself to do this on my own….” He should have hoped that Gregory might assure him, that he might prove himself to be that kind-hearted man so many insisted Mycroft become like.  
  
Instead, Gregory looks away. “And after that?”  
  
 **\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**  
 **\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -**  
  
It is late that night, so late that it would be technically be considered morning, that the knock arrives at his door. “Enter.” He does not rise to meet the familiar face, no longer caked with a cinematic recipe of faux blood, nor does he offer any praise or gratitude to the mousey woman standing nervously behind Sherlock, stuttering something insignificant.  
  
Sherlock eyes him with a magnificently trained expression. It doesn’t fool his brother one minute into believing that Sherlock’s heart isn’t racing, or that feelings like dread and regret might bubble up the moment the youngest notices the set of passports, fake identification cards and a stack of various currency lay across Mycroft’s desk. “I expected dramatics,” Sherlock muttered, quiet, oh so quiet. Mycroft’s not heard that voice in a long time, not since he dealt with a small child still marveling at the world around them, unable to understand it just yet. (“But why did the bee sting me, Mycrof’?”) It is scared and uncertain. They’d be fools not to be.  
  
Silence. Mycroft stares, quite hard, knowing that this may very well be the last time he sees his brother. He takes all the time he can to memorize that face. “I thought you might have had the Inspector over for some hours,” Sherlock continued after some moments.  
  
“With Moran and the others still about?” Mycroft scoffed. “Why would I make your mistake mine?” 


End file.
